Mummy and Daddy
by Liebling
Summary: History is uncovered, the past is dug up. (DracoGinny)


"So let it find you  
  
Wherever you may go  
  
I'm right beside you  
  
You don't have to look no more  
  
You don't have to look no more, oh no"  
  
(This is a) Song for the Lonely sung by Cher  
~*~  
  
And you told me that you loved me.  
  
You told me that you would rather -die- then see me in any sort of pain.  
  
And yes, I'm sure that getting your heart pulled out of it's customary spot isn't pain, is it? Of course it isn't. It's total and pure pleasure.  
  
Well, at least that's what it's supposed to be.  
  
I can't believe that I expected that if I gave you my heart that you would do what was in my best interest. How stupid was I? How much did I think I was in love?  
  
How much were you really worth?  
  
Not very much, Sugar.  
  
You grasped my heart in your pale hands and you squeezed the life out of it. Trickles of crimson blood protruded from the disfigured heart. And yet, I am still living. It still beats. Just not for you.  
  
Never for you again.  
  
The funny thing is that at the time, I did not feel foolish. I did not falter. I was not worried. Giving your heart is only "normal" in a relationship. Oh but it isn't.  
  
"Just open up," I pressed, "c'mon you have a heart in there. Through the stupidity and moronic tendencies-"  
  
"Ginger," he retorted stiffly, "believe me. You can not even begin to comprehend the inner workings of my mind."  
  
"I don't want to know about your mind," I replied shrilly, "I want to know about your heart."  
  
"You don't know anything about me," He told me.  
  
"Try me," I said.  
  
Your Daddy was a wicked man, wasn't he? He wasn't fatherly and he wasn't kind, was he? He was an arrogant, pompous git. And yet, you looked up to him didn't you? Don't you dare tell me that you didn't. All sons' look up to their fathers'. It is only custom. You just do. Your Daddy was a power hungry, pathetic excuse for skin and bones and yet-you looked up to him, did you not? I saw the look in your eyes when you talked about him, this certain glint of pride. He never hugged you. And he never told you how special you were, did he? He never said: "Good job, Son, I'm proud of you." Or "I like the man you've become." Or "Well done."  
  
It wasn't in his nature.  
  
But you were special, Dray. Don't tell me you didn't know.  
  
Your Mummy was a pitiful creature, wasn't she? She wasn't intelligent and did the wrong thing in any given situation. She was painful to watch, really. As her white robes swished about you could practically tell she was brainwashed. Just the way she looked at your Father-like he was God. She didn't want to get married to him; it was forced, was it not? And there she was nineteen, pregnant, and married to the world's scariest man. And did she not enjoy it at the least? Was she not happy that she was in a -position- of power? Yes, she was. She loved the paparazzi. She loved the people who came by taking pictures for the newspaper. And she'd put on that pretty smile of hers (the smile that charmed your Father) and she'd twirl around in the flowery sundress with you on her hip and her husband holding her hand. And it was just such a "family" wasn't it?  
  
It was the world's example of how a family ought to be. And she lived up to that, with every picture, with every smile, with every change to reapply lipstick, with every faux kiss given to your Father. Except the one time when it really counted: Being the world's best Mother.  
  
She told you she loved you, didn't she? In those high stilettos and with that falsified high voice. This way that said: "I love you, or I think I'm supposed to." And you picked up on it, how could you not? The way that when you were crying in your pram she just left you there to go off and buy a margarita. The way the lady in the nursery would pick you up in this way that was so far from Motherly and say: "There. There."  
  
The way that on occasion you could hear someone getting slammed into a door, coming from the Master Bedroom. The way that your Mummy would run into your room for solace, and you'd have to literally sing to her to get her to sleep. The way that her lip was always bleeding. And you never wondered. Because you always knew.  
  
The way that your Daddy would sneak off late at nights to go to "secret" Deatheater meetings. And your Mummy would cry after him, "Don't go! Darling! Don't go!" and he would always go. And he always will go.  
  
The way that in your bedroom you could have SWORN that you heard something underneath your bed-like a monster-and the way that no one never came and decided to investigate for you. Because no one cared if you were scared. No one cared if you wanted a glass of hot cocoa before you went to bed.  
  
And you said I didn't know you. You know, Sugar, I think I knew you a lot better than you thought.  
~*~ 


End file.
